


Lost Days

by ncfan



Series: Femslash February [7]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bechdel Test Pass, F/F, Gen, Horses, POV Female Character, Pre-THaHB, controlling parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 20:11:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5883967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aravis tries to teach Lasaraleen how to ride a horse, and winds up dwelling on more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Days

**Author's Note:**

> [CN/TW: References to slavery and controlling parenting; misogyny; sexism; casual classism on Aravis and Lasaraleen’s parts]

“You have to sit up _straight_ , Las.”

“I’ll fall!" 

“No, you won’t.” Well, yes, she _would_ —she was still learning, after all—but Aravis knew if she told Lasaraleen that, the latter would probably just call the whole thing off, which wouldn’t do at all. “You just have to sit up straight. You’re a Tarkheena, not some peasant who rides hunched over a mule.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if those peasants don’t have the right idea.” Lasaraleen’s voice pitched high, her grip on the reins growing, if possible, even white-knuckle tighter. She pressed her legs tighter to Banu’s sides. “At least when you’re hunched over the horse’s back, you don’t have to reach so far for a handhold.”

“Oh, Las.”

Aravis and Lasaraleen had been close friends as small children. They had played on the lawns of Aravis’s fathers estates and in the perfumed gardens by the lakes of Mezreel under the watchful eyes of their nurses or, more rarely, their mothers. At times they were joined by other noble-born girls or the daughters of high-ranking retainers, but for the most part, it was just them. Aravis’s older brother had been too old to play with them, and Lasaraleen’s own brothers were thoroughly uninterested in what they derisively called ‘girls’ games.’

Aravis remembered Lasaraleen liking the gardens of her own home better as a place to play. Whatever the season, there were flowers to brighten the landscape. In spring, there were rich blue hyacinths that grew in clumps, musky purple larkspur, tall and fragile paperwhites with golden coronae. In summer, while the unforgiving sun set even the distant hills ablaze, imported pinks and lilacs were carefully watered, while everyone at leisure took to the water in the heat of the day. Autumn brought dry, cool winds, and the withering poppies in the rocky hills were replaced by violet asters and orange chrysanthemums that bloomed seemingly in defiance of the waning year. More defiant still were the snowdrops and pansies of winter, the former growing up even through the light dusting of snow.

Flowers were possibly the only part of nature Lasaraleen suffered gladly, and that the paths of the gardens were always kept clean of mud or snow or fallen leaves certainly helped. While Aravis always held the forests of her own home the dearer, the flowers were always lovely, and the waters of the lakes cold and clear as glass. Lasaraleen wasn’t much of a swimmer, but she was willing to go out wading—still water maybe being another part of nature Lasaraleen suffered gladly.

As they grew older, they saw each other less and less. Aravis’s father had grown in importance and could not travel often, except to Tashbaan to make reports to the Tisroc—those were hardly pleasure trips he could bring his children on. Her mother, Aysel, was highly involved in the running of their household and in the tutelage of the children sent to her to learn etiquette, as was appropriate for one of the great houses (When she died, those children went away, and a household in mourning could not travel for their own pleasure). Lasaraleen’s mother, Tarana, was too frail to travel often, and her father, Firdaus Tarkaan, was loath to let his daughter travel at all.

On this occasion, however, it could not be gainsaid. In two months’ time, Lasaraleen would be wed to a member of the Tisroc’s court, and must, as all young maidens did before marrying, make the appropriate sacrifices to Zardeenah, to signifying that she was leaving Her service. Lasaraleen required a companion for the rites who was _also_ a maiden, and, or at least Lasaraleen must have insisted, no one but Aravis would do.

Aravis couldn’t imagine how long Lasaraleen must have had to beg to convince her father to let her make this journey. She _certainly_ couldn’t imagine what sort of begging had induced Firdaus Tarkaan to allow Lasaraleen a full week and a half’s time in the house of Kidrash Tarkaan before the rites were to take place. There had been, however, conditions.

First was the chaperone. It was not, Aravis admitted, terribly unusual for a Tarkaan to send his daughter off to someone’s house with a chaperone—provided it was a house in which there were several young men of similar rank. However, there were only two men in Aravis’s house who were of comparable rank to Lasaraleen. One was her two-year-old brother. The other was her father, a married man of mature years and impeccable reputation. Aravis thought sourly that Lasaraleen’s father could not have a very high opinion of his daughter’s sense of discretion, though Aravis had never seen any evidence of that beyond Lasaraleen’s tendency to treat everyone of similar rank to her as though they were her friend (Even if she privately despised them). And frankly, that was less indiscretion and more simple politeness.

The second condition was the quartet of guards that had accompanied Lasaraleen to Calavar. As with the chaperone, the guards were not in theory an unusual precaution. Aravis’s father sent her abroad under guard even if there were no reports of banditry upon the roads, and no unrest in the provinces she might travel through. But never were her guards required to shadow her constantly once she had reached her destination. It would have been counted a grievous insult to her host’s security measures. And yet, there Lasaraleen’s guards were, two standing watch over her during the day, the other two standing watch at night.

Even now, they stood at the edge of the paddock, clearly ill at ease even from a distance—Aravis could see one of them shuffling his feet uncomfortably in the grass, while the other polished and sharpened his collection of knives, as he had been doing for close to an hour. Cold consolation that they seemed to think it unnecessary to watch over their charge so closely in such a locale. Aravis would have liked to shoo them away (maybe with her polo balls), but as she had no power to do so, she instead resolved to ignore them as thoroughly as she could.

“Come on, Las,” she coaxed, trying for an encouraging smile. “I can’t believe you don’t know how to ride a horse. Even the lowest slaves of my father’s household know how to ride.” If not very well, and only because Kidrash Tarkaan insisted everyone in his household be able to make a quick escape in the event that they were attacked by rebels. “It shouldn’t be any trouble for a Tarkheena.”

Lasaraleen’s face contorted slightly, growing a touch wan under the clear, cloudless sky above. “Well, darling,” she exclaimed with a tinkling laugh, “you know how Father is. He hardly ever lets me out of the house anymore. Where on Earth was I supposed to have picked up riding?”

Aravis frowned, staring out over the paddock, lush grass dotted with pistachio and elm trees, and a few lilac trees loaded down with wilting purple flowers. It was better than looking at Lasaraleen. “Nowhere, I suppose,” she muttered.

“Exactly!” Lasaraleen slapped a hand down on the saddle. Banu made a small, discomfited noise, but exhibited no other signs of distress. She had always been preternaturally calm for a horse, even one who had been trained not to bolt or spook easily. Even when Rostam had… Well… Banu was unlikely to throw Lasaraleen, whatever the latter did. That was why Aravis had chosen her over the polo ponies, or even the riding horses waiting in the stable stalls. “I’ve always traveled by litter for short distances, and carriage for long. No one told me I’d have to ride a horse to go to Zardeenah’s temple.”

“Well, it’s either that or walking. I think the priestesses would rather we all walked, but the nobility are allowed to ride.”

Lasaraleen rolled her eyes. “That’s just the way with these new temples, isn’t it? They all want to prove their piety. No priests whose God has had sanctioned temples for two hundred years or more would make devotees go to such extremes, but just fifty years ago, Zardeenah’s devotees performed all Her rites in the middle of nowhere in the dead of a moonless night, and ran from the Keepers of the Peace.” She waved a hand ambivalently in the air. “Though if we are being _quite_ fair, I would probably run from the Keepers of the Peace too, brutes that they are. But not so long ago, Zardeenah’s people were just a rabble, and now look at them! Can you imagine what Taviin’s lot would be like if _they_ got a temple?”

Herself, Aravis had never paid much attention to the history of a God’s worshippers when she learned of the Gods Themselves. It seemed to her that the Gods must be taken without the context of humans who would no doubt misinterpret them (Though that sometimes made things difficult, when she inevitably started to wonder if _she_ was misinterpreting them). Taviin was a new name, though. She glanced curiously up at Lasaraleen. “Who’s Taviin?”

“Oh, _Aravis_.” Lasaraleen made such an exaggerated expression of disappointment that Aravis couldn’t help but laugh. “You really ought to talk to different sorts of people once in a while; you wouldn’t believe the things priests will tell you when they’ve drunk enough Denira wine.” Her fear of falling from Banu’s back forgotten in the face of being able to impart gossip, Lasaraleen straightened, drawing up to her full (not-inconsiderable) height. That one smile came over her face, eyes sparkling mischievously and lips curling back to reveal small, pearly teeth. Aravis’s heart beat a little hard at the sight of it. “Taviin is a God from one of the new provinces—Mitana, I think it’s called. He is a God of travelers, which is to say peddlers, vagrants and thieves. His followers flagellate themselves and mix their blood with the dust as an offering. Isn’t that just ridiculous? I think these displays are just appallingly boorish, don’t you? They’re even claiming _us_ to be ‘spiritually dead,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean. It’s absurd!”

“Very. Now give me the reins; I’m going to lead you around the paddock for a bit.”

The soft, springy grass brushed against Aravis’s ankles as she slowly led Banu and Lasaraleen slowly round the paddock. The wind blustered through the trees, knocking a few withered lilac blossoms loose to flutter in the air before drifting to the ground below. The dry heat pressed on Aravis, not bad enough to make her sweat, but enough to make her long to remove her jacket, and curse the fact that she was now too old to do so outside.

Why were summer days always like this, now? She used to hold summer dearest of all the seasons of the homeland, but grief had touched her in summer, and she couldn’t forget it. Would that it did not sap her of the joy she had once felt. Having Lasaraleen with her made her feel a little better, but all too soon, she would go away again, to environs much further removed from Calavar than Mezreel.

Aravis snuck a glance at Lasaraleen, suddenly feeling a little shy, in spite of herself. Lasaraleen had grown taller since last they met; she was almost as tall as Aravis’s father, now, and much taller than Aravis herself. Her face had lost all of the baby-softness of childhood, showing a strong brow, a long, hooked nose, broad cheekbones, sharply pointed jaw, and full lips that glistened dusky red in the dazzling sunlight. She was grown full-figured, the proper silhouette for a young, healthy Tarkheena. Aravis, by contrast, was slim from regular exercise, almost boyish in appearance; she wasn’t envious, exactly, but still, she had to stop herself from staring. Lasaraleen was pale from spending so much time inside; a few stray moles stood out starkly against the background of milky skin, but her cheeks were flushed bright pink, though whether this was from pleasure at being outside or from nervousness at the idea of falling, Aravis couldn’t tell.

Aravis bit back a sigh. She knew Lasaraleen couldn’t have been enjoying this very much, but she could tell her friend was making a genuine effort at learning. Not once had Lasaraleen tried to call it quits, though she was clearly uncomfortable sitting on Banu’s back. She’d even attempted to put together the right sort of clothes to wear when riding. Lasaraleen didn’t have any riding clothes, and Aravis’s were too small to fit her, but she’d brought with her from Mezreel a pair of wool winter trousers (surely unpleasant in the heat, but better for riding than an idle lady’s lightweight summer garb) and wrapped her thick black curls up under a gauzy green turban, secured with a delicate gold pin wrought in the shape of a butterfly, with glimmering opals for wings. Aravis worried intermittently that if she did fall, the pin would stab her.

It wasn’t Lasaraleen’s fault that she’d never been taught, never prepared. Certainly, most Tarkheenas did not ride round the countryside as Aravis did. But it was also a fact that most Tarkheenas would need to ride a horse at least once in their lives, and Lasaraleen’s parents must have known that. Aravis remembered Tarana Tarkheena as a silent, timorous woman, terrified of her own shadow, so perhaps she would not have had the will to insist to her husband. But Lasaraleen’s father must have known, and still he would not allow it.

Suddenly, Aravis discovered that she had had enough of just leading horse and girl around, while those two guards watched over them like mother hens—hens with knives and swords. “Las,” she murmured, barely moving her lips, “I have a… plan, but it involves getting rid of your guards.”

Lasaraleen smiled beatifically. “Well, that’s _easy_. Oh, yoo-hoo!” she cried, waving a hand through the air with almost exaggerated delicacy—only moving her fingers, really. “Would one of you fine gentlemen come over here, please?” She was practically cooing, but Aravis, who had watched this sort of display many times before, had long since ceased to be surprised by it.

The two guards exchanged a long look. Aravis could almost imagine them trying to decide which one of them would go deal with their charge. Finally, one of the guards (the younger and probably greener of the two, Aravis couldn’t help but notice) crossed the paddock. He gave a short bow to Aravis and Lasaraleen in turn, before addressing the latter. “How may I serve, Mistress?”

Lasaraleen favored him with a sweet, almost childish smile. “Aravis Tarkheena and I would like a bit more privacy, so if you wouldn’t mind, would you please join your companions inside?”

Aravis privately thought it rather galling that Lasaraleen was having to _ask_ this, but she held her tongue.

The guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mistress, your father gave us strict orders to stay by your side at all times,” he said reluctantly.

To this, Lasaraleen raised her finally plucked eyebrows. “Well, ‘all the time’ doesn’t really mean _all the time_ , does it? You don’t stand at my side when I _bathe_ , now do you?”

The young guard’s ears went a rather brilliant shade of pink. “No, Mistress.”

“Then what is the harm of leaving my side now, I ask you?”

“You could be attacked at any time, Mistress,” he insisted, though Aravis thought she heard a rather dispirited note tinge his voice. “That is what we are to guard against.”

“Attacked? Here?” Lasaraleen’s eyes widened disbelievingly. “My good man, take a look around. This is the safest place in the world. No rebels, no bandits, not even snakes! Now, I ask again, if Aravis Tarkheena and I wish to be left alone for a little while, where is the harm?” she inquired, the very picture of innocence.

The guard stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded and replied, rather miserably, “As you wish, Mistress.”

Lasaraleen clapped her hands delightedly. “Splendid!” She narrowed her eyes minutely. “And we will, of course, not mention this to my esteemed father.”

The guard relaxed slightly and nodded again. “Yes, mistress.”

He walked back to the edge of the paddock and exchanged a few words with his fellow, before they both left. Aravis watched them to make certain that they would go, and not let their fear of Firdaus Tarkaan outweigh Lasaraleen’s orders. When she turned back to Lasaraleen, the latter winked down at her, lips pulling in a mischievous grin. “There. Easy.”

Aravis raised an eyebrow. “Yes, easy. So easy that I wonder why you didn’t do that earlier,” she remarked, just a touch impatiently. If that was really all it took to get rid of the guards…

Lasaraleen shrugged dismissively. “Never use the same trick twice, darling. They catch on more quickly in that case.” She grimaced. “And I can’t really afford to do that.” She grimaced. “And I can’t really afford to do that too many times anyways. If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather they _not_ give my father a poor report of me. Now what is this plan of yours?”

“Move back in the saddle a bit,” Aravis told her, putting her foot in the stirrup as she did so. “There’s somewhere I want to go, just past those hills over there.”

“Really? That’s a rather simple plan,” Lasaraleen pointed out as Aravis climbed into the saddle in front of her. She honestly sounded a bit disappointed.

“Not all plans have to be convoluted, Las,” Aravis retorted, grinning briefly. “In fact, I do prefer simpler plans myself. If you have fewer threads, there are fewer things that can go wrong.”

Lasaraleen laughed throatily, the sound practically reverberating in Aravis’s bones. She curled her arms tightly around Aravis’s waist; Aravis, feeling her face grow warm, squirmed in the saddle, hoping Lasaraleen couldn’t see. “The worst of your flaws, no doubt. Now, lead—oh!”

Lasaraleen’s gaze strayed to the edge of the paddock. Aravis followed her gaze and stiffened. There, just beyond the fence, stood a slender young woman dressed in russet and golden yellow, watching them both. Lasaraleen smiled brightly and waved enthusiastically; the woman waved back. Aravis averted her gaze, and gave the woman no acknowledgement.

They rode slowly down the hilly part of the enclosure. In theory, Aravis could have led Banu down the hills, but she didn’t want Lasaraleen riding the horse over uneven terrain when she was still so unsteady. _At this rate, she’ll hardly be able to ride properly by the time we leave for Zardeenah’s temple. I suppose we’ll just have to go more slowly than I would by myself._

Aravis called Banu to a halt by a softly babbling stream at the base of a hill. Banu was left to graze on the gentle slope; Lasaraleen petted her dappled gray coat before settling on the grass. Aravis undid the drawstrings of her trousers, shucked her shoes, and lowered her feet into the almost shockingly cold water. Lasaraleen did _not_ stick her feet in the water, but it was with visible relief that she undid the drawstrings of her own trousers and rolled the legs up to her knees. They sat in the shade of a silver poplar with broad, glossy green leaves; Aravis watched while silver minnows darted to and fro in the water.

“Well, what do you think?” Aravis asked quietly, watching Lasaraleen out of the corner of her eye.

Lasaraleen smiled dreamily. “I think I’m getting dirt on my trousers. But I don’t like them very much, so it’s not really a hardship.”

“Hmm. …Do… you know anything about Zardeenah’s rites of exit?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.” Aravis frowned and stared down at her hands. “Mother said she would tell me when the time came for me to perform them myself,” she murmured, twisting a blade of grass in her hands, “but…”

“Ah.” Lasaraleen nodded understandingly. “I’ll ask Zhaleh later. I’m sure she’ll tell me what we need to know.”

Aravis grimaced unhappily at the mention of her stepmother. “I wish you joy of it, then,” she muttered, her grimace turning to a scowl.

Lasaraleen’s hand lit on her arm. “She’s really not that bad, you know. If you’d just give her a chance…” She trailed off, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

Aravis shook her head tiredly. “Las, I don’t want to talk about this. Please.”

“Fine,” Lasaraleen said, unaccustomedly softly. Aravis had heard her voice turn to many tones, but rarely was it ever so soft as that. Her voice turned almost forlorn. “You’ll remember to write me, won’t you?”

“Of course I will!”

“Oh, I know, but I still have to wonder, sometimes…”

Aravis nodded. She was silent for a moment. Then, without prompting, she said, rather shakily, “You’re going so far away.”

“Well, yes.” The sudden note of cheer in Lasaraleen’s voice rang rather hollow. “But don’t be too sad, dear. You’d die of boredom in Tashbaan; there isn’t any good land for riding or running of playing polo on. Nothing that really caters to your interests.” She smiled just a touch bitterly. “I might actually be able to visit you _more_ often once I’ve gotten married, too.”

That was cold consolation. Lasaraleen had been set to marry Rostam before he died. If he were still alive, Lasaraleen would have come to live in Calavar, instead of Tashbaan. If Aravis had been born a boy, she might have married her in place of her brother once he had died. But that was not to be. Aravis was not a boy, and Lasaraleen could not marry her. And Lasaraleen might well enjoy more freedom as a married woman than she had as a maiden. She could… she could try to be happy, couldn’t she?

Silently, Lasaraleen reached across the grass and clasped Aravis’s hand in her own. Aravis squeezed her fingers, her nostrils flaring as she drew a deep breath. She didn’t want to think about what kind of man Lasaraleen’s intended was. She didn’t want to think about the fact that, whether she liked it or not (and she _didn’t_ like it), this would be her fate in just a few years—Lasaraleen was sixteen, and Aravis only two years off from that age; it wouldn’t be long until she was considered ‘marriageable’ herself. They could go back to a world where they needed to keep up proper appearances later. For now, Aravis just wanted to stay like this, and forget, if only for a little while.


End file.
